


Luck of the Irish

by AtlinMerrick



Series: Clydeland [1]
Category: Crash Pad (2017), Logan Lucky (2017), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Awkward First Times, Clydeland, Dating boys taking it slow but tonight's the night because it's dark and stormy and…, It Was A Dark And Stormy Night, Kylux - Freeform, M/M, Sexy Times, kylux adjacent, …wet clothes must be stripped and…, …when wet clothes are stripped naked skin's left behind yep yep yep.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-19 03:50:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13696275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick
Summary: They're tip-toeing toward thirty-five are Clyde and Stensland, with neither keen on the kind of casual fucking they did in their twenties. So they'd agreed to take it slow, give themselves time, that it'd all come when it came…On a dark and stormy summer night itistime, and they're both about to come…after the concussion though. And the confessions. And some awkward courting.Yeah, after that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aLittleGirlGemini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aLittleGirlGemini/gifts), [Glass_Oceans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glass_Oceans/gifts), [TheKnitterati](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKnitterati/gifts).



If Mellie were here Clyde knew she'd say he was driving so slow he was going back in time.

That's what she always says when she's riding shotgun, but being as his little sister thinks speed limits mere suggestions, Clyde doesn't much let her influence his perfectly safe driving behavior.

Especially not at ten past two in the morning, in the pouring rain, and looking for his boyfriend, broke down with a flat tire somewhere along this dark road.

_Boyfriend._

Clyde wonders if maybe that's a strong word for what they are. Except when you spend a goodly portion of your day thinking about the smile in a man's pretty green eyes, thinking about how when he laughs with his head thrown back you want to put your mouth on all that white skin…

Except when that man holds your prosthetic hand in both of his as you watch a movie together, when he kisses the inside of your flesh-and-blood wrist like he's ready to deify or debauch you…

Except when you both have got so far as to rub up against each other in shadowy doorways before one of you heads home…

With all _that,_ maybe boyfriend wasn't too strong a word for what they are.

Mind you, Clyde's not a stranger to all this, but 'all this' tends to change quicker than he can keep up with. Significant other, partner, lover, boyfriend…it's always changing and the American south is not exactly on the cutting-edge socially speaking, not compared to New York or California, and anyway Stensland's Irish and for all Clyde knows his people have a whole different way of looking at romance and—

There! Stensland's a dozen yards ahead, pushing his motorcycle uphill, and if Clyde was creeping nearly backward before, he almost stops time now, pulling up slow beside his beau. Rolling his window down just enough to yell over the downpour he says, "Get in darlin, they're predicting arks!"

Stens replies with a nod toward Clyde's porch light, visible just at the top of the rise. "Clyde Logan," he says, "your weather lady duped me again, she said the rain would come on Wednesday."

Though water's sheeting off Stens' calf-length slicker and he's certainly already as wet as can be, Clyde can't just _leave_ him be, slogging his bike the rest of the way alone, so he commits whole hog, rolling his window down, so he can say a couple things.

"First, a coupla things. It _is_ Wednesday, being as it's after two in the morning. Second, thank you for makin the effort to come see me again. Third, maybe next time just come by the bar and we can go from there. I'll take you back to your motorcycle after."

_After._

The rainy night's warm but even so Clyde blushes up hot. Because they've been talking about…that. About Stensland staying over one of these nights, of them going beyond making out on the sofa, and soft ruts in doorways.

Each tip-toeing toward thirty-five, neither's that keen on the kind of casual fucking they both did in their twenties, so they'd agreed to take it slow. That had meant Clyde nailing down steadier hours, instead of his usual grab-bag of bar shifts, it meant Stensland getting a tatty old motorcycle, instead of relying on a bus that still drops him a mile from Clyde's place.

And all that meant after-midnight blushes fueling them right on through that last quarter mile, until they were clattering onto Clyde's covered porch, stomping mud off their—

"Boots. You went and got _boots."_

Stensland grins and strikes a pose. "Aren't they dashing? The lady who sold me the motorbike suggested them. She said they're part of road safety."

As a teenager, Clyde's summers had included riding shotgun down dirt roads on his best friend's dinky 125cc Honda, barefoot and in nothing but swim trunks, but he nods at Stens just the same, then says, "You get some of those wet things off and I'll get you a towel."

Clyde ducks inside and by the time he's grabbed the two fluffiest towels he's got, Stensland's watching himself drip-drip onto the tiny mat just inside Clyde's front door and—

—Clyde stops. Then starts marking the passage of time by several sorts of measures.

A couple dozen dizzying thumps of his heart.

Twenty-two drip-drips of water onto his _At Ease_ welcome mat.

One slow swipe of Sten's tongue across wet lips.

And what Clyde would guess is a good few ounces of blood flowing fast and south, all while some part of him gears up to run in circles shouting _Now! Now would be a good time for what comes before the after!_

Instead Clyde gestures. At Stensland. Standing just inside his front door. And says, "You uh." Then he adds, "You're." Finally, having exhausted all the possible words, Clyde stops.

Here's a thing you have to know about Stensland Feye: No one would ever call him _tough._ Tinkerbelle maybe, what with his fluttery mannerisms, willowy frame, and Irish lilt, but now? Right now, raking wet hair back with long fingers, booted and suited neck to ankle in wet black, black _wet_ motorcycle leathers, cheekbones dramatic-sharp in the low light, Stensland looks—

"Fucking gorgeous."

Clyde's wits choose those words with which to make their delayed appearance and, since they are right words and true, he does not call them back. Instead, he continues to stand half a dozen feet from his boyfriend, towels hanging limp from the dark fingers of his myoelectric arm, and Clyde waits.

Here's another thing you need to know about Stensland Feye: he may not be tough stuff, he may not be the smoothest of operators, but he can rise to an occasion. So Stens slow-blinks at Clyde, beautiful Clyde, steady slow sweet gentle Clyde, and Stens does not, emphatically he does not walk toward him. Stensland stalks.

Then squeaks, "Oh shit! Shit, shit, shit, I'm sorry! Your nice carpet! I'm dripping all—" and Stens levitates himself back to the welcome mat but that thing's had all it's gonna take and _squishes,_ so with more panicked swearing Stensland hot foots it to the nearby kitchen, thinking he'll strip his wet clothes there _except._

Except some lights make Stensland look so, so white that he appears to be an actual bottle of actual milk and fluorescent is one of those unforgiving lights and so no, he's not stripping in front of Clyde for the first time right here because there's just no way that man will have thoughts of a love-making nature if he's thinking of cows, so Stens keeps hot-footing it right on through the kitchen, to the side door, and back onto Clyde's wrap-around porch and—

—Clyde's right behind him, the towels held out like fluffy flags and for a long second both men stand there, surrounded by the sound of a summer downpour and what happens for a long few moments is that nothing happens.

Then Stens takes a deep breath and says, "I'm going to take off my clothes now."

Instead Stensland Feye goes and gives himself a concussion.

—  
_TheKnitterati wanted Stensland's vehicle to break down and him having to stay with Clyde, Glass_Oceans and I were discussing Stensland in full leathers, and Duxoell wanted cuddles (they're coming D!) and here we are._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If you—"
> 
> "Dang!"
> 
> "Ohgoodlord I'm—"
> 
> "It's fine—"
> 
> "Shit your hair!"
> 
> Right. No. No, they have to stop, they—
> 
> "Feckin fuck that stings!"
> 
> —they stop.

"I do not have a concussion Clyde, stop it!"

Clyde Logan served for four years in a war zone. He saw himself a fair bit of shit and some of the shit he saw resulted in good men and women getting concussed. He knows it can happen easy, same as he knows that people who _are_ often think they are _not._

Still and all, Clyde's on his knees on this porch for a reason and that reason is shouting at him and Clyde would rather not rile him up worse on account of he _might be concussed._

So Clyde stops trying to pick Stensland up and instead picks up his hastily-discarded prosthetic, the one that would have made sliding his arms under his possibly-concussed boyfriend more difficult. That done, Clyde curls his shoulders, curves his back, and looks down studiously.

Though he never means to play the puppy, Clyde is aware of what he looks like in these gone-still moments, and so he stays just where he is. And where he is is on his knees beside Stensland, who is lying on Clyde's very nice porch, flat on his back and winded after trying to take off wet boots while _hopping around._

At least his already-shed jacket and t-shirt made a nice pillow for him right after, though right after is when Clyde tried checking for concussion and Stensland started shouting and—

"Don't _dooo_ that."

Clyde blinky-blinks an innocent _do what_ face, though he knows, because puppies always do, and frankly it's going to be a thing all the years of them, Clyde going contrite-small and his skinny boy feeling all sad about that and telling him not to. And sometimes, over those future years, as now, Clyde's gonna reply, "You first."

Stensland blink-blinks, nearly asks _first what?_ But he knows because Stens always knows when he's laughed at the wrong part of a joke, when a girl he likes pretends she doesn't see him in the shops, when a boy he likes makes 'it's only a joke' about Stensland's body but really means it.

So yeah, though he's upset he made Clyde go all small, well who's he to talk, lying here with his hands clapped hard over his own naked chest?

_Your nipples are so small it's hysterical._

A man can be praised for all the things he is, but too often he'll believe most the words that tell him what he isn't. So when somebody he used to know said that thing to him, that "hysterical" thing, Stens remembered the words and he's spent years reflexively covering his chest when he feels awkward.

_Guys your size are fucking scary._

Same as a massive man can remember all those times his size defined him to others before his mouth or his manners ever could, same as that man remembers when someone he used to know said he was "scary," and ever since then Clyde's reflexively curled himself small when he's scared he's made someone else scared.

Right. So.

These things Clyde Logan and Stensland Feye believe? Well they're going to go on believing them for awhile still, but awhile's not forever. The beginning of the end of believing the stupid words of careless people is going to start now.

Right now.

And Stens _goes first._

He uncovers his thin chest with its, yes, surprisingly small nipples, and instead of laughing Clyde looks and looks and whispers a soft "oh," like maybe Stens just unveiled a diamond ring or the keys to a new car.

And when Clyde bends down and slides both arms under Stensland and just lifts him and then _stands up_ with a strength that yes, could be scary, Stensland instead whispers a delighted, "Oh jeezus," and after he tells Clyde he's gonna wank to the memory of that moment.

_After._

Before the after there's now, and now, with two men who want and have wanted awhile, well now was for…it was…once they got inside the…Clyde couldn't…he…the door…it…

"Wait, just."

"I got it."

"No just."

"I'll get it with my foot, you—ow!"

"Oh shit did—"

"—it's fine just—"

"Wait, wait I can."

"If you—"

"Dang!"

"Ohgoodlord I'm—"

"It's fine—"

"Shit your hair!"

Right. No. No, they have to stop, they—

"Feckin _fuck!"_

—they stop. Stop trying to get back in the house. Because it's not working. What with Clyde holding Stens and…the screen door…mauling…and then a twisted foot then. Just.

It's all awkward now.

"Stens?"

"Clyde?"

The sexy's kind of derailed.

"I'm gonna put you down now all right?"

"Please."

_*clomp*_

But as Stensland slides out of Clyde's arms there's that big, solid sound and they both look down.

 _Oh, yeah._ Stens still has one of his motorcycle boots on. The toes of his bare left foot wiggle.

And awkward turns toward hysterical and they fall through the door laughing, Stensland hop-hop-hopping across the kitchen floor, bending like a ginger-topped pipe cleaner as he yanks the second boot off, Clyde trailing close with a long arm and a short arm reaching out and—

"This is how we got into this mess Stens! You're gonna—"

But he doesn't, he doesn't fall again, instead Stensland gets that sexy boot off and drops it on Clyde's living room floor and he keeps going through the house, a jumping bean shedding first one sock, then the other, Clyde laughing behind him and still reaching for fear that Stensland's going to fall, but the falling? Well that's already double-damn done, isn't it, they've been gone on each other for weeks now and so good luck with that.

Good. Luck.

He used to think himself an unlucky man, did Clyde. If prodded just barely on those nights when the bar is slow, Clyde'll give a dozen examples to prove the provenance of the Logan family curse, believing every last proof he offers.

The funny thing is, all the belief in the world didn't stop the cackling arrival of green-eyed luck from coming into his bar and laughing at his jokes, didn't stop beautiful, skinny luck from humming while he warms Clyde's stump with fluttery hands.

No, a six foot two inch bit of Irish luck came along despite all the proofs and that luck's right here, backing up toward Clyde's bedroom and grinning, unzipping his leather pants and—

"Whoopsie!"

—stepping on one of Sadie's many, many hair pretties. Because Clyde's niece, she goes and she sheds sequins and glitter like she's being paid to do it, so everywhere that child goes so go sparkling ribbons and clips and hair ties and instead of just stepping past the one under his foot, Stens picks the pretty pink bow up and he puts it into Clyde's long hair, whispering, "My princess."

Then he puts his arms around Clyde's neck, and says soft and sweet and warm, "Help me with my trousers lovey, I think they're kinda stuck on my willy."

Then he cackles.

—  
_One more chapter; prolly tomorrow. And note to self, always go jogging if you're not sure what happens next. Then you'll hear Gotye's[Somebody That I Used to Know](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8UVNT4wvIGY) and that will be quite helpful._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the summer evenings they've spent together these past months, cuddled close in the swing on Clyde's porch, the air humid with their whispers, fingers trailing over jeaned thighs and bare forearms? Well their words and bodies and laughter were doing something sweet and fine—laying the groundwork for something far more than fucking.

If he and Clyde were in a fan fic, Stensland knows they'd be the 'soft' pairing.

It doesn't take six rereads of all 443 Dawson's Creek fics to know a thing like that. To know that if you just look at them from the outside you'd designate them the fluffy ship, that his waifish build and Clyde's soft southern drawl would cast them as the cute couple, always holding hands, crooning endearments, having Meaningful Simultaneous Orgasms.

And there's nothing wrong with that but here's the thing: start as you mean to go on. Once the word willy fell out of Stensland's mouth that was absolutely them decided. Rough and tumble and sweaty it would be, fluff need not apply. So right there in the living room and half-naked Stens clutches and climbs, Clyde lifts and holds, together they shove tongues down each other's throats, and go bumping down the dark hallway to the bedroom.

Falling on the bed they struggle Stens out of his leathers and once those wet-tight pants are off his pretty stiffy, they are _on._ On each other with the happy violence of teeth sinking into a soft, white neck, of fingers fisting into long hair, and quicker-than-quick Clyde starts squeezing Sten's fist and begging, "More," until his hair is clutched even harder and Stens _pushes._ Clyde moans low and pretty, slides down, and just like that starts sucking cock.

One, two, three seconds and Stensland opens those bendy pipe cleaner limbs wider than wide, yanking _almost_ harder-than-hard, and it's Clyde keening, Clyde wriggling those wide shoulders to get that big body close-closer-closest that brings Stensland right to the edge, but what takes him over with a back-bowing shout is the feel of Clyde's right hand clutching at his thigh, and the sweet perfect pressure of his amputated arm _doing the same thing._ Like loving a deep voice or a fulsome ass, Stens loves Clyde's arms both, but he especially loves watching and feeling Clyde use that amputated limb with grace to hold, to reach, to show his _want._

Stens comes, pulling at Clyde's hair, clutching his stump, and honest to god he's just barely finished spurting that last little bit before he turns into a jumping bean, bouncing his butt on the bed, gesturing _gimme gimme_ with both hands.

So Clyde crawls up Stens' long torso with pleased little lip smacking sounds like that was the best come _ever,_ then he croons wordless pleasure when Stensland starts licking his face to clean off the spit and the slick. They spin down that rabbit hole awhile, Stensland sliding his hand into the hair at Clyde's nape, the other cupping his jaw while he licks at Clyde's mouth and chin and his sparse beard, making more of a mess than he's tidying but that's the point probably, or at least Clyde's cock thinks so, making a heavy pearl of precome which burgeons slow into fatness, then drips down onto Stensland's belly. That's when they both look and Stens reaches down, slots Clyde's cock beside his own, then wraps long legs tight and uses them to set Clyde rocking.

It's Stens' turn to moan needy now, fisting both hands in Clyde's frankly _fuckable_ hair (he earns that hair, Stens has seen in Clyde's shower the four or five bottles of serum-this and calming-that) and anyway, later Clyde'll say he got off like he did—a lot and _loud—_ because tugging and pulling and rocking them together with his fucking fantastic legs, Stensland sounded like _he_ was gonna get off again any second.

He didn't, he wouldn't again for an hour, but Stensland's all hot nerve endings, skin hungry, and orgasms are just one thing in a whole bunch of things that feel _fantastic._ Like the press of Clyde's forehead against his own, the hot breath he pants between their mouths, the tickle of his long hair across skin. Two hands fisted deep into that serum-softened glory, Stensland curls up so he can watch between them again. Their sweat and the dribbles of his own come after Clyde got done down there make everything slick enough for rocking, and the faster Clyde ruts the faster they both grunt and that's…that's…that's…

…that's got Clyde shaking, his big arms trembling either side of Stensland's head. He's turned his own a little, wanting to catch in the cup of one grand ear all the low sounds Stensland's making. They're nothing like anything he does when they're squirming on the sofa of an evening, licking into each other's mouth while a film they've already seen unspools. They're wound-tight sounds, low and somehow carrying his Irish lilt, but also urgent and demanding. _Look, look, look_ he's saying without saying it, look at us lovey, look. So Clyde looks down like Stens is and he shakes some more, because the sight of Stens' pale belly, of his own cock sliding across soft skin, of Stens' thatch of red-bright hair and his own curly black…

…who the hell wants simultaneous orgasms Stensland will never know because watching Clyde as he comes is as of now and will ever be _the_ best thing of all things that will ever be best. So best is this best that Stens is henceforth going to spend some serious breakfast table-time trying to tell Clyde _why,_ exactly, why these moments when he can watch that beautiful face transform are the finest he'll know.

There will be talk of the things Clyde's tongue does as he comes, how his eyes squinch then flutter, how his sounds are like 'the prettiest little desperation,' how it feels like the world goes away just then and it's only them in the dark or the dawn. This quest of Stens to define the beauties of his big sweetheart coming will be worthy of frequent rumination until that time they're in Denny's and mutually moaning over some orgasmically-good dulce de leche crunch pancakes. Stens'll take that opportunity to say something quite clearly and publically about how one of those fine orgasm moments he loves so much include how Clyde sometimes "moans in time with each spurt of your willy," and it's only because Clyde fears growing a visible wet spot in his shorts that he hushes his love by whispering something true.

"I don't think it matters what I do in bed darlin. It's the best thing to _you_ because it's _me._ I could probably cluck like a chicken and you'd like that just fine, too."

Don't think Stens doesn't think about that because he does, and he comes to the conclusion that he probably would but that's philosophy for the future.

Right now they are in bed together for the first time and Stens is busy enjoying not having a simultaneous orgasm with his sweetheart, and not having a simultaneous orgasm means he's not missing out on watching his giant, sweaty love going still everywhere, all over—except down there. _There_ Clyde's awfully busy too, making a mess between them and moaning about it.

The sound is so gorgeous Stensland echoes him, soft little "oh oh oh" noises as he looks and looks, watching Clyde still coming in fits and spurts, his big body propped up on elbows, his hair letting go with a single warm drop of sweat that catches in the hollow at the base of Stens' throat. Stens feels the shiver in Clyde's arms, the pleasure bone deep, and it's not forever all of this, but it _feels_ like it. Feels like all the summer evenings they've spent these past months, cuddled close in the swing on Clyde's porch, the air humid with their whispers, fingers trailing over jeaned thighs and bare forearms, their words and bodies and laughter laying the groundwork for something far more than fucking.

Looking at the warm come between them Stensland has the distant and dreamy thought that he wants to curl up and taste, fold like sweaty origami and lick at his own belly, but it's a far off thought. In the foreground is the pleasure of watching Clyde's belly press against his own now as they both take big breaths, then, in slow and certain degrees Clyde crumbles sideways and on to his back. He doesn't go far, no, he wedges his shoulder, hip and thigh right up along Stensland's side with a sigh, and smiling he swipes at the sweat on his forehead.

Stensland grins at his own come-smeared belly, then ventures a couple tastes with a pinky swiped through the mess. It tastes…not good per se but…right? Yes, it tastes the way Clyde tastes when his neck is under Stensland's mouth, when he slides a thumb across Stens' lips, when their tongues wriggle around together. He wants to tell Clyde all of this stuff, that his come tastes like him, because Stensland's a chatterbox and after sex is no different. He doesn't say anything though because he's also been called on that a couple times, when someone he used to know told him afterward, "you so so talk too much Stens, go to sleep," but it's like Clyde, whose eyes aren't even open right now, knows what's going on in Stens' head because it's him who begins chattering.

"You tasted mighty nice," he says, making little lip-smacking sounds, "I confess I've never found that true for myself."

There's a couple things to unpack here, but Stens starts with, "I've been eating fresh pineapples in an effort to create a more pleasant ejaculate. Score one for SexyGayGentlemen dot com!"

Clyde giggles not because this is funny but because he absolutely knows this is _true._ He rolls onto his side, slides his arm under Stensland's neck. "You knew we were gonna finally do this?"

Stens giggles because he barely knew Clyde was sweet on him until that time he kissed him at the bar in front of his sister and his brother and some nice macaroni. "Oh no, I've been eating pineapple for weeks."

"Oh," Clyde says, because didn't that just feel like a heart-warming punch right to the solar plexus? He actually grunts with the imagined thud of it. As sweet things go this is right up there with that time nine-year-old Jimmy got six-year-old Clyde to stop crying about his broken bicycle by going to the corner store, buying two tubs of Pillsbury frosting, one chocolate, one vanilla, giving Clyde his choice, and then sitting on the curb beside him as they ate with their fingers.

Looking at Stensland as if he's hung the moon, Clyde hooks his short arm round a pointy elbow and tugs Stens' hand toward his mouth. He sucks the come off that pale finger and when he's done he murmurs a commitment to consuming more from the family Bromeliaceae. "Besides, did you know that in Chinese the word for pineapple sounds something like good luck and so it's kind of a sign for prosperity and fortune?"

Stens thinks that pineapple could be Chinese for anal prolapse but so long as knowing it made Clyde this sort of ruminative, happy, and finger-sucky, Stens will gladly talk about and eat pineapples all day.

"And," Clyde adds because he's ruminatively happy, "I was readin up on the Irish, and they say you're lucky for exactly the opposite reason than you'd expect."

Stensland's willy is not seventeen-years-old but as Clyde talks and sucks it valiantly goes kind of half-stiff. A glance and he sees that Clyde's willy is very much resting. Which is to be expected as it's not got Clyde sucking on its fingers. So to speak.

"It's because," he continues, "even when all the bad stuff happened to you folks, the potatoes getting that blight, and so many having to go lookin for food and jobs and home somewhere else, and then people being bad to you in that somewhere else, well you all just kept your chins up and your humor and you made a go of it anyway. The Irish created their own luck is what I'm sayin."

They're going to stay in this bed for the next day as it turns out. Clyde is going to call in sick (the second time he has done so, the first being after walking pneumonia had him passing out in the bathroom at Duck Tape), Stensland is too, and they're going to spend a lot of time laying groundwork, sexual and otherwise.

Stensland's going to learn how much he likes Clyde's fluids all over him to the point that he's going to rub every feasible part of himself under Clyde's sweaty armpits at one point and not even bother denying that he roguishly styled his hair with Clyde's come at another.

Clyde's going to learn how much he likes all of Stensland's cheerily filthy ideas, how it's not dirty to put things up each other's butts so long as they use condoms over most of them and so long as they're sure to let any refrigerated items they use come to room temperature first.

They're both going to learn that a man who some might say looks like a red-topped Q-tip likes to push and pull and carefully place all of his beautiful beau's bulk and that that six foot three inch beauty who's built like a fucking tank loves making plaintive, breathy sounds while his boyfriend fingers him deep.

Clyde Logan and Stensland Feye are gonna learn that luck is another name for hard work, for speaking kindly, for politely sucking after you've been well-sucked, for making good with what you've got.

If this was a fan fiction they'd be written as the rare pair and the fluffy one too, their kinks would be tagged as both hard and soft. Most of all Clyde and Stens would be what they are to and for and with each other: Lucky.

—  
_All that stuff Clyde said about luck is true—for both pineapples and the Irish. Yes. Thank you for reading!_


End file.
